


this story is too stupid to deserve a title

by greywash



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Idiotic, M/M, Soppy, no really, why did I write this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-15
Updated: 2012-08-15
Packaged: 2017-11-12 04:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein John and Sherlock are kind of boring in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this story is too stupid to deserve a title

**Author's Note:**

> get writer's block on serious stuff→fail to break it via all usual methods→write inexcusably soppy nonsense instead
> 
> wholly and completely unedited. like, I think I read it once, maybe? but this story is way too stupid to justify spending any more time on it, so I am posting it and then washing my hands of it. *washes hands of story*
> 
> GO STORY GO AND BE (terrible and) FREE

In retrospect, Sherlock knows that he should've realized it out sooner.

The only defense he really has is that his experience is limited (intolerable). The first time, when he came home from New York in November with a black eye and a scalp laceration and two four-terabyte encrypted hard drives, John's fingertips on his too-hot and aching cheekbone were so revelatory that the finer details of the act seemed trivial. John had kissed him a great deal; Sherlock remembers that, of course, as he remembers John's arm slotting into place around his spine and beneath his ribs and the ensuing sudden static-shock of knowledge that _John was meant to be there_ , that a few billion years of evolution had, in fact, occurred simply to make his body so that it would fit properly against John's body. Sherlock can, if he tries, call up John's legs tangled up with his legs and John's erection sliding against his erection and all that nonsense, but the bit of the first time that burns brightest within him is agonizingly simple: John's fingertips, on his cheek. In that moment all of Sherlock's aimless and amorphous desire was given sudden and irresistible shape. Of course it wasn't boring. How could it be boring? John was _touching his cheek_ —andkissinghimandlickinghimandbringinghimjusttotheedgeoforgasmandthen _lettinggo_ , but most importantly: John was touching his cheek.

It's been eight months, now. Sherlock doesn't know how long it takes. In most things, it'd take him a day or two, but John touched his cheek and the ordinary rules of Sherlock's interest and attention have thus far wholly failed to apply—for Sherlock. But not for John. How could they fail to apply for John? John was busy charming secondary school girls out of their knickers while Sherlock was dissecting his first cow's eye. By all accounts John was leading a one-man sexual revolution across continents while Sherlock was getting tossed out of university, terminally annoying Lestrade's predecessor, and perfecting his seven percent solution. Of course John must be bored; he's done it all before. Sherlock should've realized it sooner. 

He rubs his fingertips over the edges of the book's cover. He's still wearing his gloves—nitrile; required, really, given the circumstances—so the sensation is muted, blunt and far away. Knowing the reason doesn't make it less disorienting. He hates wearing gloves. He sighs and turns the page.

He's intent enough on his reading that he doesn't hear John come in, but then John is curling his fingers just under the back of the collar of Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock shivers and looks up. John is leaning close, reaching down. He turns the page—oh, that's terrible; Sherlock should've warned him. John's hip is pressed against the arm of Sherlock's chair which is actually John's chair but Sherlock'd felt the need to borrow it and John's hair is very short and bristly because he'd gone out at ten to get it trimmed and he smells like his aftershave and Sherlock's hypoallergenic laundry detergent and their bed. Sherlock puts his face in John's armpit and breathes in.

John shifts the book in Sherlock's lap, probably so they won't drop it, then twists, perching on the side of the chair and wrapping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders.

"Bit of light reading?" John asks. His armpit is damp and sweaty, which is lovely.

"Your barber has once again tried to make you smell wrong," Sherlock observes, and then sighs, and turns his face up to look at John's face.

"Has he succeeded?" John asks, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Of course not."

"Well, that's a relief." John bends down to kiss him, quick. "This for a case?"

Sherlock examines John's face, which has more lines than it did five years or three years or eight months ago and is expressive and open and, at the moment, sharp with interest. John's eyes are moving, tracking visibly as he examines Sherlock's face, which he does quite a bit these days, and the corner of his mouth that smiles frequently is smiling even if the rest of it isn't. Sherlock's heart is uncomfortable where it is stuck inside his chest.

"Are you bored?" Sherlock blurts out, and instantly regrets it.

John frowns at him. "What?"

John hadn't asked. Sherlock remembers that, too, that he had expected John's mouth to shape out, _Have you ever_ , that he had prepared his lies carefully in advance; but John didn't ask, in fact, so Sherlock didn't have to lie, and after, the entire question had seemed rather unimportant. After, if John had asked, Sherlock would've been able to say yes in perfect honesty, thinking of John's body fitting against his body, clothed and then again, later, naked; thinking of John's fingertips on his cheek. But John hadn't asked. John has never asked.

"Are you bored?" Sherlock repeats, even though he hates repeating himself, and then, because John still looks confused, Sherlock adds, " _Bored_ ," impatient, "are you bored with—with what we do?"

John looks down at the book in Sherlock's lap. He tilts his head to the left, then to the right, then a bit further to the right. "Are you asking me to do that?" John asks. "Because—I've got a bad shoulder, you know, and I'm forty-four, and flexibility has _never_ been my strong point, but—"

"We could," Sherlock says, fast. "If you wanted to."

John looks back up at his face. "Do you want to?"

"If you want—oh, damn it all, this is going to get completely circular, isn't it." Sherlock rubs the back of his wrist against his forehead and sighs.

He feels John's fingertips on the nape of his neck, sliding up into his hair. He breathes out, steady and slow, and leans his weight against John's weight on the arm of the chair.

"When you asked if I was bored," John says, "you were going to ask if I was bored with you, weren't you?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock says, too fast.

John tugs at his hair.

Sherlock sighs. "It's a perfectly reasonable question," he says. "You have always—there were, you know, rather a lot of women in your life, before Mary, and, well, then there was _Mary_ , and I strongly suspect she could give Irene a run for her money in the sexual adventuresomeness Olympics, from the way Lestrade's not been able to attend to a word I've said to him in weeks, and—"

"Sherlock," John says, amused. "Did it not occur to you to think about why Mary and I divorced?"

"She's a harpy," Sherlock grumbles.

"As a matter of fact, you like her quite a bit when you're not thinking about the fact that she's had sex with me, you know," John says, very gently, and Sherlock sighs, because it's one of the less wantonly inaccurate things John's said lately. 

John rubs at Sherlock's scalp.

"You're right, you know," John says, after a minute. "Mary is... rather sexually adventurous, as a matter of fact. Which is part of why it didn't work out; we had, um, different interests, I suppose, and it just seemed so... tedious, at times, to be honest." He sighs. "I wasn't always a very good husband to her," he admits, and then rubs at his jaw.

Sherlock swallows. "I have," he says, and then stops. He clears his throat. "I have—I have had very little outside experience, you know."

John rubs his thumb over Sherlock's ear.

"None, really," Sherlock admits, and John squeezes the back of his neck.

"I don't exactly have any complaints," John murmurs.

"I just mean, if you wanted to try something new," Sherlock says, and it makes his throat ache, so he clears it and tries again. "You'd probably have to show me a diagram," he admits, looking up, because he knows that John's smile will flash, full and bright and _there_ , lovely. "But."

"We could certainly always try it," John says, his eyes still crinkled up, transparently pleased. "Possibly with—a pillow, or something, to—"

"One of the cushions from the sofa; they're firmer," Sherlock corrects, and John laughs.

"All right, then," John says. "If you want to try it, I am certainly willing to give it a shot—with the assistance of a nonzero number of cushions from the sofa. But..." He pauses, then rubs at his eyebrow. "I'm really not bored, Sherlock. And I think... we do all right, don't we? I'm not saying we could make a line of fetish pornos or anything, but... I like it when you touch me. And I like touching you."

"Yes," Sherlock says quickly.

John smiles down at him. "It's... exciting. Isn't it?"

Sherlock looks back down at his lap. He breathes out through his nose, and closes the book.

"Three of them I got from the library," Sherlock says.

"I did wonder," John asks, "about..." He indicates Sherlock's gloves.

"Well, yes, human beings are horrifying," Sherlock says, "and you touched it, and then touched my hair, so we should probably both shower, possibly with bleach." He puts the book on the table and peels off his gloves.

John bends to kiss him. John's mouth has become familiar. The thought makes the ends of Sherlock's spine tingle.

"There's four," John observes, a little muffled. "Four books."

"Yes," Sherlock says. "Very well done, John. Full marks for counting."

"Bought the fourth, then?" John asks, and, _really_ , only John could make a trip to a book store sound lewd.

"Thought I'd save it for your birthday," Sherlock tells him, even though it is a lie. It's ages until John's birthday. "Christmas, maybe." John tugs at his hair. "Or—maybe," Sherlock says, feeling very bold, "if you don't annoy me, I'll, um." He swallows. "Maybe I'll give it to you after our shower."

"Our shower, is it?" John is smiling. "That has promise."

Sherlock licks his lips. "Yes," he agrees.

John brushes his fingertips over Sherlock's cheek, familiar and electric, always new.


End file.
